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MEMORIALS OF A TOUR IN SCOTLAND, 1803

VI. GLEN-ALMAIN;

OR, THE NARROW GLEN

          IN this still place, remote from men,
          Sleeps Ossian, in the NARROW GLEN;
          In this still place, where murmurs on
          But one meek streamlet, only one:
          He sang of battles, and the breath
          Of stormy war, and violent death;
          And should, methinks, when all was past,
          Have rightfully been laid at last
          Where rocks were rudely heaped, and rent
          As by a spirit turbulent;
          Where sights were rough, and sounds were wild,              10
          And everything unreconciled;
          In some complaining, dim retreat,
          For fear and melancholy meet;
          But this is calm; there cannot be
          A more entire tranquillity.
            Does then the Bard sleep here indeed?
          Or is it but a groundless creed?
          What matters it?--I blame them not
          Whose Fancy in this lonely Spot
          Was moved; and in such way expressed                        20
          Their notion of its perfect rest.
          A convent, even a hermit's cell,
          Would break the silence of this Dell:
          It is not quiet, is not ease;
          But something deeper far than these:
          The separation that is here
          Is of the grave; and of austere
          Yet happy feelings of the dead:
          And, therefore, was it rightly said
          That Ossian, last of all his race!                          30
          Lies buried in this lonely place.


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